The next morning, he returned to the cemetery. At the base of the graves, among the wilted daisies, he found a scrap of gray fabric.

On it, drawn in charcoal, were three stick figures holding hands. Two smaller ones in dresses. One taller with a beard.

Underneath, barely legible:

“Stone Creek. 17.”

Stone Creek was a neglected neighborhood on the edge of the city.

His heart hammered. He didn’t dare call the police with such a story. A mysterious boy. A drawing. A doll.

He drove there himself.

Stone Creek was a maze of narrow alleys and sagging houses patched with tin and plywood. House 17 was barely standing, its door hanging slightly open.

He hesitated only a second before pushing inside.

The air smelled of mold and alcohol.

There, on a pile of old blankets, lay the boy from the cemetery. His skin looked pale and feverish. Beside him, a large man slept heavily, an empty bottle in his hand.

The boy looked at Harrison. “I knew you’d come.”

“What’s going on?” Harrison whispered.

“He’s my dad,” the boy said weakly. “He doesn’t like when I tell things.”

With trembling effort, the boy pointed to a corner where a worn rug covered a wooden trapdoor.

“They’re down there,” he said. “Your girls. And other kids.”

Harrison’s blood froze.

He pulled back the rug. A metal lock secured the door.

“The key’s in his pocket,” the boy whispered.

Harrison moved carefully, heart pounding so loudly he was sure the man would wake. He found a ring of keys.

One fit.

The lock clicked.

He lifted the trapdoor. Cold, damp air rushed upward.

He descended the narrow ladder, using his phone as a flashlight.

At the bottom, in the dim beam of light, he saw it.

A metal cage.

Inside were several children, thin and frightened.

And there—curled together in the corner—Emily and Grace.

Alive.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

“Daddy?” one whispered.

He rushed forward, gripping the bars. “I’m here. I’m here.”

They clung to him through the metal, sobbing.

A thunderous crash sounded above.

“What’s going on?!” the man roared, stumbling down the ladder with a knife in his hand.

“They’re not yours!” Harrison shouted, stepping between him and the cage.

The man lunged. The blade sliced Harrison’s arm. Pain flared, but he didn’t retreat.

Fueled by two years of grief and a father’s fury, Harrison fought back. The struggle was frantic, clumsy in the tight space.